Mind Games Redux
by TesubCalle
Summary: Special Agent Paula Cassidy takes on a serial killer in a retelling of an episode that left many viewers wanting to know more details... Including me. Spoilers for episode 3 of season 3, 'Mind Games'. Brief appearances by Gibbs and DiNozzo and McGee.


**_A/N:_ I'm a NCIS newbie, dear readers. But after watching Mind Games, like many of you, felt cheated by the ending. I wanted to see how Paula kicked butt. So here's my offering as to what went down...Major spoilers, of course, for Mind Games.**

_"I will never forget the day that Gibbs caught this psycho...I was a Junior at Georgetown, __and for two years, every woman in DC was afraid to go out at night. I actually owe Gibbs __for the first full night of sleep I got in college."_

It was on a Thursday; March 16th, 1995, to be precise. That day, the monster finally had a face and a name: Kyle Thomas Boone, and his unprepossessing mug was splashed all over the news. He didn't look like a monster. I've found that killers of his stripe rarely do. Just his eyes...they were empty, cold and lifeless.

The monster claimed he'd been responsible for 22 women. Only 5 had been found. Among the evidence recovered were two severed tongues. They were in a jar, in a barn on the Boone family farm in Sussex County.

Ten years ago, the public didn't know the depths of Boone's depravity. Authorities were tight-lipped about the case. The newspapers and television broadcasts informed us of the bare minimum. The killer assaulted his victims and tortured them, leaving 'distinctive carvings' on their bodies. Even back then I knew we weren't being given the whole story. I knew details were being purposely withheld. This is standard procedure. Release _too much_ information, and you risk having a potential copy-cat killer on your hands. If that happens, you have little or no means of distinguishing between your original psycho and your psycho wanna-be.

When Boone made the mistake of killing Petty Officer Desiree Ann Rivera, Gibbs stepped in to investigate. If it hadn't been for the fact that Rivera had been Navy...Boone might still be out there, terrorizing DC. And I'd probably still be sleep-deprived.

I used to actually have nightmares about this monster. One particularly vivid dream had me on a steady caffeine diet for a week: anything to avoid falling into a repeat of that horrifying vision. I dreamt the monster had caught me. He was some featureless man with hooded eyes. He lurked in the shadows and carried a large knife. I remember I was lying face-down on the ground, my arms out in front of me. My hands were bound tightly with rough twine. I could _feel_ the grit of the sandy dirt under my outstretched palms. I was wearing jeans and a navy blue T-shirt. The shadow-man knelt beside me and pulled my shirt up to my shoulders. Then he sliced into my skin. The sensation was so _real_; the bite of the steel as he carved into my back. I remember _feeling_ my own blood pooling in the small valleys along my back and spine and dripping over my sides. My roommate at the time had to shake me awake. Evidently, I was crying out in my sleep and was freaking the daylights out of her.

In spite of his best efforts, Gibbs was never able to get Boone to reveal the location of his remaining victims. I don't know how that must have eaten away at Gibbs' soul when he worked the case a decade ago. He doesn't share, and he most certainly would never confide in _me_. To him, I'm still an outsider to his anointed inner-circle of trusted agents. I'm not even sure I have his grudging respect. But I sensed he did not want to be a party to interviewing Boone in a last-ditch effort to find the missing women's bodies. The monster had actually chosen the electric chair over lethal injection as his means of execution, which was to take place in three days. Being compelled by Governor Norin and the SecNav to 'talk' with Boone must not have sat well with Gibbs at all. But the Governor's orders and the SecNav's orders certainly carried some serious weight.

Gibbs' first visit to Sussex State Prison wasn't a complete waste of time, however. Predictably, Boone was not forthcoming about his 'dumping ground'. Instead, he gave Gibbs the location of his scrapbook. Out at the abandoned Boone family abode, I had to endure a sooty chimney and a few bird carcasses to retrieve the scrapbook from the chimney flue. It was a Polaroid photo-album full of graphic images of his victims in various states of torture and undress. They all had hearts crudely carved into their backs; their mouths gaping open with tongues missing. Much to our combined horror, there were _more_ than 22 women pictured in Boone's collection.

This sent Gibbs back to Sussex State Prison. That night, he had Boone transported to NCIS. We were on hand to welcome our new 'guest', and Tony used it as an opportunity to ride herd on the Probies. It was already 10:00 pm by then, and I personally could see little value in the move. With the execution so close, my feeling was that if Boone wasn't cooperating before this, he wasn't likely to cooperate at all.

McGee saw it differently, and surmised that bringing the condemned man to unfamiliar territory would perhaps throw him off-balance. I knew Gibbs had tried that tactic the first time around. It had failed ten years ago, so what was different now? I voiced that concern at the very moment Gibbs entered, and he heard me. The answer was obvious, of course: _He_ was different.

The Sussex County Bureau of Prisons van backed up into the warehouse. About a dozen armed guards watched as the monster, in orange prison garb and shackles, jumped down from the back of the van. With a smile, he spoke to Gibbs: "I knew I could count on you, Jethro. It's good to be home again." The two guards at his left and right lead him to an elevator. He turned and looked at Gibbs once more. "Yep...good to be home."

Gibbs must have decided to let Boone sweat a little. He left the killer to wait in the interrogation room for several hours without once going in for a chat. Time was of the essence, here. Boone had a date with the electric chair in less than 48 hours. When I suggested to Tony that he ought to tell Gibbs to hurry things along, Tony turned it back and suggested _I_ tell Gibbs. I told Tony I wouldn't do such a thing for the main reason that I'm not stupid. Tony surprised me with his reply, which was by saying that of all things that I am, stupid is definitely not one of them.

I know he still carries the torch for me. Which is why I try to bait him every opportunity I get. He's so easy to get to. Teasing him about me having a rich, red Ferrari-driving lawyer boyfriend named 'Bob' was one of the highlights of my otherwise dreadful week. It was so satisfying to hear him say he hated lawyers. Of course I'd never tell Tony that 'Bob' is actually my landlord who drives a red Ford Focus and is in no way dating material.

And speaking of lawyers...Boone's lawyer, Adam O'Neill, certainly wasn't happy with the unannounced move. He requested a private conference with his client, and this was granted. He eventually went away, placated, once he received Gibbs' assurances Boone would be left unharmed while in NCIS custody.

Fortunately for Gibbs, Abby and McGee had put their heads together to determine the location of the victims' bodies using the Polaroid photographs. With a combination of computer wizardry, satellite imagery, complex calculations and luck, we had a great idea where to look.

The location was in a wilderness area McGee determined was in Great Falls National Park. Along with Tony, the three of us got out of the parked truck. We gingerly clambered down a steep incline surrounded by trees and overgrown brush. McGee used his GPS locator to lead us to a partial clearing. Under the canopy of the trees, small amounts of sunlight streamed through onto the dead leaves.

Tony ruefully commented that it was the perfect place for Boone to bring his victims. It was off the beaten path with no hard surfaces to reflect sound. Any screams from those poor women would have been dampened. Nobody would have ever heard them.

It was here we uncovered some remains when McGee found a skull. Tony instructed us to spread out, tape off the area right away and contact Gibbs. We were out of cell phone range, so we would have to eventually hike back up to make the call.

Then I found a fresh body.

McGee felt she couldn't have been dead more than a few days. I felt inclined to agree. The stench was terrible, but the rate of decay was not very advanced at all. The tell-tale calling card of the heart carved into the back was present.

My thoughts were racing. Boone was locked up. Had been for the past ten years. This was obviously a very, very sick copy-cat. I decided to get back to the truck immediately in hopes of getting better reception. Gibbs needed to know about this development _now. _I told Tony and McGee I'd be back in twenty minutes.

I would be very wrong about that.

I managed to get Gibbs on the phone as I walked briskly back in the direction of the truck. I quickly informed him of our findings; that the woman had been dead less than a week, that she had Boone's markings on her back, and that we were dealing with a copy-cat killer. He answered that he wanted the area sealed off and that he was on his way.

The sight of the murdered woman had unsettled me. I was definitely on edge as I ducked under some branches and went up to the truck. I almost felt like someone was watching me. I took a few furtive glances around; saw nothing. Feeling slightly foolish, I turned and continued up along the front of the truck. I thought I heard a rustling sound. I spun around and grabbed for my weapon. Something hard slammed into the side of my head and I knew nothing.

A rocking motion stirred me from the depths of my unconscious state. The right side of my head ached painfully and I felt woozy. I tried to take stock of my situation. My arms were bound behind me and my mouth was taped shut with what felt like duct tape. Not a good sign. I was laying on my left side in a confined space that was hot and stifling. Then it dawned on me that I was trapped in the trunk of a car.

I tried to piece it together logically. Who would do this to me? My instincts had been right: someone _had_ been watching me. Probably had even been watching me, Tony and McGee from the time we arrived at the site of the remains and the fresh body.

It could only be the copy-cat killer.

I could feel the car slowing, and it eventually came to a stop. The images of all the murdered women flooded through my mind. Two years of sleepless nights and bad dreams and now this? Ending up in the clutches of some twisted freak who wanted to mimic the monster we had in custody? A freak who wanted me to be his next amusement?

No.

I made the decision right then that no matter what happened, I was at least going to go down fighting. I was not going to just lie down and die. Whoever this copy-cat was, he had made one mistake already: he'd left my legs free. I might not have my gun, but a free limb can be just as deadly if used right.

The lid of the trunk was raised, and I was momentarily blinded by the sudden light. A hand reached down and pulled the tape from my mouth. When I was able to look up, a smiling face came into focus: Adam O'Neill.

_Boone's lawyer?_

"Hello," he said, eyes dancing eerily and he chuckled to himself.

O'Neill pulled me from the trunk and I hit the ground unceremoniously. He dragged me to the middle of the hay-covered ground. For the first time I realized I was in a barn. The Boone family barn? I couldn't be sure.

"What did you do to me?" I asked him.

O'Neill crouched down beside me. "I hit you in the head with a shovel, my dear."

I recoiled at the touch of his fingers against my neck and cheek. I still felt disoriented, but I forced myself to focus.

_Keep him talking_, I thought to myself. _Keep him distracted._

"Did you kill that woman we found?"

"I did," he said, and lightly slapped the side of my face. He stood up and paced around me towards the car, which was parked a few feet away.

"How many more are there, O'Neill?" I asked.

I could hear him counting off, muttering to himself as he was silhouetted in the shadows. "There was one, and there was two, three, four ... _You_ will make five."

A sudden flash from a Polaroid had me blinking against the after-images.

"How did Boone turn his lawyer into his replacement?"

He paced around me again, grabbing onto a chain that was hanging from one of the rafters. "Do you really think I'm Boone's lawyer by coincidence?" he said incredulously. "Come on! See I – I sought Boone out."

Another blinding flash from the camera.

"Why?" I asked simply, looking up at him, following his restless motion.

"So I could learn from him... Learn from the best," he said, as he crouched down once more.

I was trying to get up onto my knees. I stopped as he grabbed my chin and continued, saying: "And you: you're my graduation present."

Right then he delivered a solid kick to my ribs that sent me flying a couple feet and I grunted in pain. But it had the effect of raising my ire and sharpening my senses. My heart was pumping furiously. I could feel an adrenalin rush. The trick now was to harness it and use it to my fullest advantage. While I was still on my back, partially winded, he got down beside me again and ripped open my shirt.

"You know, you can scream if you want to. It's allowed." He proceeded to snap another picture of me. He tickled my side and chuckled again. He stood and glanced at the developing picture.

I was _not_ going to give in. I was _not_ going to grant him the benefit of his twisted fantasy. I was _not_ going to scream for him, or anybody. I was _not_ going to end up as a series of pathetic photographs in a killer's scrapbook. My tongue was _not_ going to be his trophy. I'd stared down worse monsters than this when I interrogated terrorists in Guantanamo Bay. This sorry excuse for a human being was _not_ going to take my life.

O'Neill walked back to the car and set the camera down on the hood. I craned my neck and managed to see him pick up a long-bladed knife.

"Kyle says he wants Agent Gibbs to remember him for a long, long time after he's gone." He put that knife down and selected a smaller blade. "So you and me," he said, as tapped the knife playfully against his head so it glinted in what little sunlight streamed into the barn, "we're gonna take this nice and slow."

With a wide grin, he approached me and suddenly slashed out. I tried to evade his reach, but felt the certain bite of the blade into my upper arm as I rolled away. I gasped in pain. O'Neill snapped off another picture of the damage he'd inflicted.

Now I was furious. I had reached the boiling point. For the most part I'd shaken off the effects of the shovel to the head. Of course, it might have been due to the adrenalin rush that I wasn't feeling my aching skull as much at the moment.

O'Neill wasn't the _real_ monster. He was not the terrifying shadow-man of my dreams. He was not the cause of my many sleepless nights. He was only a cheap imitation. The _real_ monster was set to fry, and I had every intention of being there to see them throw the switch. I resolutely rolled onto my side and onto one knee. I pushed off my right leg and stood to face a laughing O'Neill.

He was smug as he said: "Oh, a fighter, huh?" We circled each other and he frowned, "I haven't had one of those before."

"Try that thing again with that knife, and you never will," I said, as he lunged at me with the blade. I deftly side-stepped him, and his momentum carried him past me.

His back now to me, I swung my right leg around in a semi-circular motion aimed at his thigh, just above his knee. I wanted to take him down quickly, hopefully weaken his limb enough that he couldn't stand, and thus be unable to attack. O'Neill staggered and went down when I made contact, and the knife skittered away from his hand.

He cursed out loud and tried to crawl towards his weapon. I rushed him and sent a flying knee to his ribs. Already off-balance, he collapsed to the dirty ground, coughing and sputtering. He tried to pull himself up against one of the wooden walls of the barn.

"You're dead, Agent Cassidy," he managed to croak out. "I'll make you beg for mercy. I _will_ hear you scream!"

"You're nothing, O'Neill," I spat through clenched teeth. "You're just a pathetic excuse for a human being. You had to copy someone else to make yourself feel important; to make yourself feel special. Well, I have news for you: you want to follow Boone's path? It's leading straight to Hell via that electric chair, courtesy of the state of Virginia."

Enraged, O'Neill once again tried to pull himself up. He was favoring his right leg. Good. I'd hurt him enough to really affect his movements. He took a small step towards me, and I attempted another roundhouse kick, this time with a different target in mind: his head.

But he was ready for me. He managed to step back just in time and caught my ankle, twisting it painfully and tossing me to the ground.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

I felt his hands roughly grab my shoulders, and in the dim light, felt him propel me forwards. The left side of my head slammed into the rotting wooden planks of the barn wall. I heard the boards splintering. I sank to my knees, my eyes shut tight as I tried to ignore the ringing in my ears.

_That's going to leave a nasty bruise_, I thought, biting my lip and still pissed at myself for giving O'Neill an opening to regain the upper hand. I heard his retreating footsteps, still satisfied that his gait sounded uneven. I started to wonder why he'd left me where I was. A split second later it occurred to me he'd gone back for another knife.

_Oh, no._ _Get yourself up, Cassidy,_ I urged myself. _Don't let this guy cut you to shreds. Don't give Gibbs another reason to hate himself._

I nearly broke into hysterical laughter. Here I was in a serious life-and-death situation, and I was worrying about what _Jethro Gibbs_ would do if I didn't make it out of here in one piece. I turned myself around and managed to prop myself back up.

O'Neill had a knife in his hand again; the one I'd first seen him pick up. The blade was long and wickedly sharp-looking. He licked his lips and stalked towards me. He feinted once, trying to scare me.

The only way out of this, I knew, was to disarm him again. A well-placed kick to his hand and wrist would take care of the knife. If I could successfully get him to drop it, I'd have to keep him away from the rest of the assortment of knives. That would make it more than a fair fight. He only had a couple of inches on me, and he wasn't a burly man by any means.

O'Neill was growing impatient. I could see the restlessness in his eyes. He stepped closer to me, making broad slashing motions. His arm flailed out towards my neck. I ducked to avoid the strike and dived forward, lowering my left shoulder and slamming it into his gut.

With an "Oof!" he tumbled hard to the ground with me on top of him. I hurriedly sprang back onto my feet.

Where was the knife? Still gripped tightly in his hand. I stomped down as hard as I could.

"Bitch!" he yelled. I could feel him trying to pull his hand out from under my boot. He tried to push my foot away with his left hand. I shifted my weight and brought my right foot onto his exposed throat. I pressed down on his windpipe, gradually applying pressure.

Gagging now, he forgot about the knife. His eyes were bulging and he desperately hit at my right leg with his left fist; grabbing and swatting vainly at my ankle.

No way was I letting up. He tried to flip himself out from under me, but he was unsuccessful. O'Neill arched his back, stretching and trying to gain some leverage, but the leg I'd connected with was still hindering his movements. I relished the feeling of my boot tread digging into him and cutting off his air supply.

He was probably turning purple; I couldn't tell. But it felt good to imagine that perhaps he was. His attempts to free himself from my foot were weakening. He was growing listless. But knowing he could be faking, I kept my boot right where it was.

"Paula!"

I hadn't heard the car approach; hadn't heard the running footsteps. The cavalry had arrived, weapons drawn and ready. They rushed into the barn and stopped when they saw me and a supine Adam O'Neill. I'd never been happier in my life to see Jethro Gibbs and Tony DiNozzo.

Gibbs re-holstered his gun and approached.

My foot was still digging into O'Neill's throat. I hadn't noticed his struggles had completely ceased.

"Paula," Gibbs said, in tone that is as gentle as possible for Gibbs, "you can stop now."

I looked at him and then shifted my gaze to the concerned look on Tony's face.

"Agent Cassidy, stop," Gibbs repeated, putting a steady hand on my shoulder. I looked down at O'Neill's face. His eyes were open and unblinking. He was not breathing. I removed a shaky foot from his neck and leaned against Gibbs. Suddenly every part of my body was aching. My shoulder was screaming in pain. My wrists were raw and I couldn't even feel my hands and fingers. I felt like my skull was going to split.

"He's the copy-cat killer," I managed to say in a tremulous voice.

"He's also dead," Tony breathed. I saw he was kneeling down and had tried to find a pulse.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

Tony nodded as he stood. "Told you I hate lawyers."

* * *

The real monster, Kyle Thomas Boone, was convinced I was having my tongue cut out of my mouth while Gibbs was 'interrogating' him one last time. He was convinced his terrible acts were being enacted on me through his protege. He was convinced they would also continue after me.

I will never forget the look on his face when I got to tell Boone he was wrong. I watched the smile drain away from his face as I told him I was afraid his lawyer was going to miss his execution. I revelled in his confusion and anger as Tony informed Boone that O'Neill was dead.

The remains of all the missing women were recovered – without the cooperation of Boone, of course.

The monsters; real, fake and imagined, are all gone.

And I will be sleeping well tonight once again.

END


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